


I'm Fine, I'm okay

by licoricebrightwater



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cutting, Depression, Female Frisk, Forgiveness, Frisk Has Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, POV First Person, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Reader Is Frisk, Sans Has Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, There might be a sequel but it works as a standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 07:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14468286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/licoricebrightwater/pseuds/licoricebrightwater
Summary: The monsters are on the surface, you're the ambassador, you're making things better for your family, and trying to improve relations between monsters and humans. It's not an easy job, but you're doing your best, trying to make sure that this is the Last, Final, Happy ending.You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.You're not okay.





	I'm Fine, I'm okay

"Heya kid"

 

You jerk and look up, the TV blaring some cartoon you don't immediately recognize. You take a quick glance around; noticing that the sun was down, and you had a blanket draped over your hips, one that most definitely hadn't been there earlier. Mom must have put it there...she worried, you knew she worried.

 

The steady of ticking of the clock, a novelty for monsters to have accurate timekeeping. Underground there was no sun to tell day or night, so timekeeping was pretty arbitrary at times. When the barrier went down, sales of clocks skyrocketed; something the local economy had not counted on.

 

Digital clocks weren't nearly as popular with the monster race as analog were, something about the shifting gears, the soft clicking. Of course, with every group, there was the exception and the biggest amongst monsters was Mettaton and by extension, Alphys who insisted on being on the cutting edge of technology.

 

Your eyes traveled to the speaker, Sans was standing at the entrance to the living room, light from the kitchen backlighting him, leaning comfortably on the door frame and clutching a bottle of ketchup. His grin was as plastic as ever; he did a good job trying to hide his feelings, but you had learned to read him. Idly, you wondered if Papyrus could as well, and just chose not to comment on the sadness there and instead try to bolster his big brother with jovial outgoing enthusiasm.

 

Papyrus and Sans' relationship still mystified you to a degree; you never had much of a family at all. You had a brother technically, but your parents saw him as the kid they wanted, you were the mess up, the unwanted second child. He got all the praise, the affection, the love...you got the criticism and a single line repeated over and over that has the ability to crack you apart inside.

 

“Why can't you be more like...”

 

Your parents didn't want another child, especially not one with a few little problems...they wanted another trophy to show off like your brother was. And he knew he was their golden child, you were the scapegoat, so his word was taken at face value while you could've delivered them a million dollars on a silver platter and they'd complain about the shine.

 

So trying to understand the two skeleton brothers could be a confusing mystery at the best of times. For that matter, trying to get a read on your mother was just as taxing, you couldn't tell what she was trying to get out of your relationship; what was in it for her? In fact, what was in it for Sans? If anyone had any reason to hate you, it was him. Yet...

  
  
"You were makin' some pretty awful sounds there kid..." Sans ambled into the room and sat, breaking your train of thought before you could get lost in it. You swallow, mouth dry and scratchy, and why do your cheeks feel wet?

 

"I'm alright, no bones about it" the joke slips out easily as you raise your shields, swallowing a mouthful of saliva to lubricate your rough voice. Speaking is no easier now than it was before, even after becoming the monster ambassador, speaking is still exhausting and uncomfortable.

 

But you force yourself through it because speaking with sign language was not polite to most and not understood by many. Hands it was called, the monster equivalent of sign language that you picked up from the non-verbal monsters during your time underground.

 

"Yer alright huh?" Sans doesn't sound convinced as he plops himself into a chair, and sips his ketchup; looking at you with a smug grin, "Maybe it's just a human thing, but ah...most people who are 'okay' don't cry in their sleep."

 

Your hand slaps to your face, touching the hot wet marks sitting like blood in a crime scene on your face, and you wipe them away furiously with the back of your sleeve.

 

"You know, " Sans continues conversationally, ignoring your frantic attempts to cover up the evidence of your nocturnal sobbing, "Only monster kids wear stripes, I haven't seen you in that sweater for a long time, I'm surprised that it still fits ya. Then again...it was always pretty big, an' yer pretty small."

 

You hug your favourite blue and purple striped shirt unconsciously, you only wore it around home and when your emotions were conflicted and wild. It made you feel safe...or...or other things. It was a confusing heirloom of timelines. Briefly, you consider bringing up the point that you are technically still a kid, your birthday is a few weeks away...but ultimately decide not to argue the point; he's baiting and you know it, but the question is, why?

 

"Sans," You counter, putting on your Ambassador Face, "What do you want?" You straighten your back and look at him, wishing you had water for your parched throat, yet he just continues to watch you...grinning and sipping his ketchup for a full minute.

 

"Tori called me" He began after letting you stew in your anxiety, "She ah...she was cleanin' yer room kid, an' foun' somethin'. Do you wanna talk about it?" Anxiety lurches in your chest, falling into your belly in a cold hard ball of lead, you forget to breathe, your shoulders hunching as you try to curl into a ball slightly.

 

Sans' expression widens a little but he quickly pulls it back to its normal unreadable banal grin, you try to reign your feelings back in, but every second that you refuse to answer is damning, every thunderous boom of your heart like a judge's gavel.

 

"I'm-I'm not sure what you're talking about," the hastily cobbled-together response is a weak delaying tactic, and you both know it, the slight stutter at the beginning of your denial undermining your words even as you finish the sentence. He's not buying, hell **YOU** wouldn't buy it either!

 

"Do ya really need me ta spell it out kid?" his sockets have gone dark, his grin wider, the ketchup bottle dangling from his fingertips, half his face cast in the dancing light of the TV, the characters on the screen singing some stupid song about friendship.

 

"Sans...my room is," you begin as he reaches behind his back, you notice he isn't wearing his normal blue jacket, rather a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants with those pink slippers on his feet that never seem to wear down.

 

"My room is my business, what I do in there doesn't" he tosses something onto the table separating the pair of you, it bounces once and comes to a rest on the carpet in front of you. Even without seeing it, you know what it is based on the glint reflecting off of it.

 

Your excuses die in your throat, your head is buzzing as you stare at it, your face draining of colour, you can't meet his gaze...you can already imagine it; a death's head grin with a single blazing azure eye.

 

"Pick it up, kid." he doesn't snarl or his, the casual tone somehow more painful. You wish he would just yell, that much you know how to deal with; people yelling, people throwing things, hitting and screaming are so much easier to deal with.

 

Your fingers tremble as you reach down, the room feels frigid; like you were just tossed out into a Snowdin blizzard in nothing but your underwear. That almost feels preferable to this. You feel the metal handle, slightly worn from use and familiar to your fingertips, lifting it up and placing it on the table between you both.

 

A small steak knife.

 

Sans sighs, his eyes closing and he throws back a mouthful of his ketchup, letting the taste swirl around as the obnoxiously sweet music plays through the speakers of the tv, ignored by both of you. You try to crawl into your blanket, to disappear into some secret cavern beneath it where he can't reach you.

 

"...So you wanna talk about it kid?" you refuse to meet his gaze, and instead study the knife, as if you don't intimately know every detail of the small piece of metal, your mouth feels like a desert and you keep licking your lips but refuse to answer.

 

The short skeleton leans forward, his shoulders sagging, but you refuse to meet his gaze, your body is shaking so violently, slick with a cold sweat. You feel like you're freezing, your voice strangled in your throat.

 

"Tori said one of 'em went missin' shortly after ya moved in here, said she couldn't find it at all. Looked everywhere but yer room...who would've thought that it was sittin in there, stashed in your closet, eh kid?" You don't know how to respond, you aren't sure he'd even understand it all.

"...Feels good, at first don't it?" your head snaps up in surprise, to meet his hollow sockets, his grin now deflated to a painful grimace, "Feels really good...but then ya have to do it again...an' again...ya know ya shouldn't but uh.." he takes a heavy breath, "But ya can't help it."

 

There is no possible way...

  
  
"Sans" you begin, but the short skeleton simply puts his bottle of ketchup onto the table and stands, you can see his eyes starting to swell with emotion, more emotion than you're used to ever seeing him express. So much...HURT.

 

"I'm so sorry" his pain-wracked apology catches you off guard, "Oh God kid I'm so...so fuckin' sorry." tears swollen with magic bead his eye sockets, the smile now completely melted away, "I should've...I should've seen it. I should've known."

 

You're reeling from the one-two punch of Sans' apology and him...him CRYING! You hastily gather your wits and wave defensively with both hands.

 

"No, no Sans I-I'm fine I'm," you swallow the lump that suddenly swells in your throat, threatening to choke your words, "I'm fine. It's okay, you-you don't."

  
  
"Kid..." Sans closes his eyes and turns his head away wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve before taking a shaky, emotional breath and looking back up; the grin back but it was painful to look at.

 

"Kid...Frisk, I know...I know," Sans encircled his wrist with a thumb and index finger and pushed the sleeve of his shirt up to the elbow, then repeated the process on the other arm before turning both arms towards you for inspection, wrists up.

 

His arms were covered in small scratches, grey marks, chips missing, and tiny, thin lines.

 

"I've...I've been 'fine' too."

 

Something inside of you just... _breaks_.

 

“oh god...oh god!” you stammer, breath coming in short rapid bursts, eyes wide and growing hot; vision swimming as a terrible, sickening realization sank into your body to settle in your gut alongside the anxiety.

 

You did this.

 

You and your fucking RESETS! It's not enough that you killed his brother over and over, but you...you SCARRED him! You damaged him! And now he has to walk around with these horrible reminders on his body of how badly you hurt him! You're just like you're mother and father and brother! You don't deserve these people or their kindness, their generosity or patience. But most of all, you don't deserve their forgiveness.

  
“I...I'm so, sho...” your words begin to slur as you fail to keep a tight reign on your emotions, “oh Gods Shansh, I'm sho shorry” you bawl, collapsing into your hands, the guilt biting at you...and your arms starting to itch. Sans settles you onto the couch, taking both your hands in his, eyelights searching your face for something, he was speaking but you couldn't hear him; all you could see was those scars, those chips...the knife. YOUR knife. Dust...god so much dust, so much pain and hate all because you couldn't say no, all because you were afraid.

 

 _Dirty Brother Killer_.

 

Your breathing is faster, your head feels light, your arms shake; your chest tightens...the itching on your arms is growing worse, growing hotter, it's like everything inside of you is trying to burst free, it's painful it hurts. You can't think, are you breathing? It-

  
  
“FRISK!” You jerk looking up at Sans, momentarily confused and lost, and take a moment to look around...right, the house...Mom's house...not the hall, not...not...

  
  
“I...” you look away from Sans for a moment, but the short skeleton is not having it, and cups your face; turning you back to look at him. His eyelights are full of worry and sadness, but no anger...no judgementalism.

 

_No blue light._

 

“Kid...what happened?” He doesn't ask if you're okay, “You completely zoned out there for a moment, I got scared” Your mouth moves but no sound escapes, so you swallow the lump that was blocking your words. Your eyes trace down over his grey shirt and to his arms still bared for you...covered in tiny nicks, long thin cuts...damage. Damage that hasn't healed, your sins etched onto his bones.

 

“I did this.” Admitting a crime is supposed to make you feel a bit better, but instead, you only feel that awful, familiar weight of your sin crushing down upon you, “Oh Gods Sans, I'm so...so-”

  
  
His arms lift, hands cupping your face and tilting your head so he can look into your eyes; his own non-judgemental and kind. There was wetness on his cheekbones, damnitt you really **DO** hurt everyone you touch, don't you?

 

“What? No, no stars above, no. Kid, you-you didn't do this.” He strokes your cheek with his fingertips, then turns his other arm so you can better examine it.

 

“This, all of this is before ya fell down kid. I haven't done this in a long time kiddo...this aint your fault, okay?”

 

Your fingers tremble as you reach out, rubbing gently along his ulna and radius, skin catching on the small chips missing here and there as you try to understand. Brow furrowing, you look back up at the skeleton, who watches you with so much patience. But then again, you knew **EXACTLY** how patient he could be. Absolute God of Hyperpatience.

 

“I...I hurt you though,” you repeat, “I killed your brother, your friends, Mom...I killed so many innocent, sweet monsters. I-I-”

 

Sans' embrace is somewhat of a new experience, your head pulled down to his clavicle and feeling his arms wrap around you and hold you as if he could somehow keep you from falling apart with his sheer, bullheaded stubbornness.

 

“You are not bad, Frisk” His words are spoken solemnly, almost commandingly, “You aint bad at all, you got us all up here, didn't ya? Kid...yer good.” He relaxes his grip and you lean back a little, looking up at him again, as his arms loosen slightly but not enough to let you wriggle free. God the itching in your arm is so hard to ignore.

 

“Sans, I'm-I'm a dirty brother killer!” you spit the words cringing at the sound of your own voice, and for a half moment his eye lights wink out. He sits still, quietly, the closing theme of the cartoon providing inappropriate background music.

 

“Oh...Oh, I see...,” his eyes return, sad but warm, “I see what yer sayin'.”

 

The short skeleton sighs and pulls your head back against his neck, phalanges running through your shoulder-length hair, still cut into that bob cut you like, some have titled it your 'iconic hairstyle'.

 

“Frisk...” He sighs again and closes his eyes, letting his skull rest against yours and takes a long breath through his nose bone, letting his thoughts settle, as phalanges run up and down your back soothingly. For both of you.

 

“Frisk, “ He begins again, “Losin' my bro hurt, I aint gonna lie. But I've had time ta get over it, I've had time ta see you workin' hard for us all, bein' the best friend that Paps coulda asked for. You work hard, too hard in my opinion. Even Paps is a bit worried by how little time ya take for yerself.”

 

He tilted his head so he could see your arms, illuminated by the tv screen, “I can see why ya didn't take much now though.” He took a long breath and pulled back once more, so he could look into your eyes.

 

“Frisk...I haven't been mad at ya in a long time, an' I sure as hell don't hate ya.” He shook his head, “I guess I shoulda said this before, shouldn't I? I just thought I...” he lifted his head to look back into your eyes, his jaw working.

 

“I aint good with talkin' bout my feelings kid, never was all that good. I aint like Paps who can do it as easily as breathin',” You wonder if that's part of why he turned to...well... **that,** “I was angry for a while kid...but yer pretty hard ta stay angry at. Before I knew it, I was rootin' fer you again. I thought it was all gonna be alright, we all had our happy endin'. I never...I never thought...,” his breath was stuttering and slightly ragged.

 

“...What I'm tryin' ta say here kid is, I forgive ya. And...I'm sorry I didn't tell ya before. I should've said somethin' a while ago.” His bony arms squeezed you again, and his grin returned; not as wide as before, but much more honest.

 

A real smile.

 

You try not to cry, scolding yourself for already having cried several times tonight; too many times already like some kind of baby. You're almost an adult now, you shouldn't be crying, you shouldn't. But it's like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a sand castle, your emotions burst out of you, your skin burning and raw and mind screaming at you.

 

 _This isn't his problem_ your thoughts scold, _stop making it his problem! And stop crying you big baby!_

 

“I'm sorry, I”m sorry,” you chant, “I'm fine, I'm okay, I'm sorry-” But Sans shushes you and pulls you back, your tears soaking into his shirt.

 

“Let it out kiddo.” Sans tone is soothing, “Let it all out.” He closed his eyes once more, stroking your back slowly as you bawled into his chest, completely unable to reign in your sobbing in spite of your best efforts to wrestle it back down into your belly.

 

You loose another stream of apologies between ugly, wet hiccuping sobs, but Sans only squeezes you in his embrace, you can't see his expression but his tone tells you that he's probably not smiling his fullest.

 

“Let it out...just let it out kiddo...let it all out,” Sans repeats, making you only cry harder, afraid you'll wake the house, afraid he'll start to mock you like your brother or...or-

 

“You are not alone anymore Frisk...” he whispers, cradling you against his chest, “You got us now...Paps, yer Mom, Undyne an' Alphys...ya got everyone. You aint alone.” Your body is trembling as you fight with your emotions and traitorous whining throat, swallowing heavily to try and beat the feelings back down inside of you instead of spilling them all over Sans' shirt and lap.

 

Some stupid commercial for Mettaton's latest movie plays in the background, bright flashing colours and sounds, enough to warrant an epilepsy warning, but it goes ignored by the pair of you.

 

“...I'm sorry,” you repeat, now with your emotions finally wrestled back under control, jaw hurting from all your crying, you lean back and wipe your eyes with the heel of your palm and a fist, swallowing a gummy thickness in your throat.

 

“I'm sorry,” you sniffle and clear your throat, “I'm fine, I'm okay.”

 

Sans studies you for a moment, you see a gentle blue glow from tears on his cheeks, but he's not bawling like you do, because he's an actual adult and you're just a-

 

“No kid, you aint okay,” Sans states softly but without judgment, “You aint okay at all, an' I think you haven't been okay for a good long while. But you know what?” He wipes a stray tear from your cheekbone with one of his thumbs, “That's okay. It's okay to not be okay.”

 

Your chest tightens again but you force the feelings down, refusing to humiliate yourself by crying again, and instead just swallow and clear your throat in spite of the prickling hotness beading on your eyes.

 

“Kiddo...” Sans shifted you, turning your legs and laying you down against his ribs, while grabbing the blanket you had been napping under and pulling it up your body, letting you rest. You hadn't realized how exhausted you were, your eyelids falling, as the surprisingly comfortable skeleton shifted into a mutually comfortable position.

 

“Don't...don't tell Mom...please Sans, you-”

 

“I gotta kiddo,” He cuts you off, “You know I gotta. We gotta make sure your body is gonna be okay, this stuff is pretty hard on your body and soul...I gotta tell her, for both our sakes.” You couldn't really argue with him, nor did you expect him to actually agree to not tell Toriel. Gods above and below tomorrow wasn't going to be fun, not at all. “Don't worry kiddo...I'll be right there the whole time, I aint leavin' ya alone; I promise.” The words are comforting, and you feel yourself starting to drift.

 

“...'m still sorry” you mumble, thoughts beginning to jumble together, “I'll be good, I promise” Sans only chuckles above you and plants a soft kid on your forehead, it's warm and tingles with magic.

 

“I know kiddo, now you get some sleep, alright? Ol' Sansy'll be right here the whole time...I aint goin' nowhere.” He rumbles, and this time you can hear the grin in his voice, it's weird...the only other person he talks to like that is Papyrus....

 

“mmm...night...Daddy” you don't know where those words came out but the sleep clawing at your mind doesn't give you strength enough to take even that one word back.

 

You can't see it, but Sans' expression is stunned for a half moment, and then his eyes grow wet again, but the smile stays on his face, in fact,t if anything, it grows so wide that it threatens to split his skull in half.

 

“Heh...I didn' think I could love ya...more than I already did.” When you don't respond he just chuckles and plants one more kiss on your forehead, arms wrapped around you like a bony shield to protect you from all the evils of the world.

 

“Goodnight...babybones.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't normally go into my own personal life, but...I feel like I should for this one. I suffer from clinical anxiety and depression, I also recently had my first self-harming session. It was scary because it felt good, it worked. Yes, I am getting professional help for this, but it's a slow, painful process. 
> 
> This story was written as a way to help get some of those feelings out, and my own personal demons regarding a lost childhood and being adopted into a not-so-loving family. 
> 
> Who knows, maybe I'll make Frisk reset in a sequel (with the monster's blessing) so that she has a chance at a proper childhood raised amongst monsters. I haven't made any decision here yet though. 
> 
> Yes, parts of the dialogue were inspired by UT! Mob and Hazespawn.
> 
> Anyhow...like or not, this was mostly for myself.


End file.
